Weep and Be Burned
by Gwedhiel0117
Summary: Morgoth stands upon the walls of Angband, contemplating Maedhros as the eldest son of Fëanor is bound up in chains deep beneath his feet, pondering just what he should do with his copper-haired thrall next.
1. Moringotto

**Summary**: Morgoth stands upon the walls of Angband, contemplating Maedhros as the eldest son of Fëanor is bound up in chains deep beneath his feet, pondering just what he should do with his copper-haired thrall next. (Inspired by a study of "Myths Transformed", _Morgoth's Ring_.)

**Disclaimer:** I own nothing of Tolkien's world. I wish I did, but it all belongs to the Tolkien Estate. I make no profit from these ventures of delving into the Master's legendarium, and I also do not own the uploaded "book cover" for this particular story. It is owned by "Bloddueuth", whose depictions can be found on DeviantArt. If this is ill-suited for any purpose for anyone, I will gladly take it down; all you need to do is ask. But please inform me so before rudely going to delete my story without warning. Thank you.

**A/N:** This is virtually a bold and somewhat daring attempt on my part to delve into the mind of Morgoth and a few of his thoughts behind the captivity of Maedhros, and I bear no pretentions of expecting this to be accurate. Maedhros, as well as a couple other recognizable characters, will star (including Sauron). Though multi-chaptered, this story will prove to be of short length, and will soon progress from its current Rating of T to Rated M. Reviews, as always, are appreciated and asked for.

**Warning:** This story, short as it is, will progressively grow to be dark with little to no levity, and some descriptions and/or images may prove disturbing to some readers. This initial chapter is "clean" some might say, but in future chapters, read with caution. This story is not for the faint of heart, as the saying goes.

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"O wretched man that I am!" ~ Romans 7:24

**Chapter 1**

Elves. Such playful insects. As ants they scurry when their home be prodded with the butt of a twig. As beetles they flee come the light of Darkness. As butterflies, so beautiful and delicately wrought, they be smote with but one rent of their wings.

Melkor stood on the thousand-foot precipice above his Great Gate of Angband, the dark fortress cloaked in shadow and poisonous fumes. No smidgen of light could pierce the vapors he summoned from the depths of the stronghold and that belched in black clouds from the countless smithies through the chimney. And no foul winds from the West could conquer the three great smoking peaks of Thangorodrim towering into the sky just in the distance. Here it was impenetrable, for not even the surrounding black lands Melkor now looked upon could regain any semblance of Life.

Elves, Melkor again mocked with a disdainful chuckle deep within his mind. His smoldering eyes glittered as he cast out his gaze unto his wide demesne of Arda. Elves, he mused, such delightful baubles! How foolish they proved to be when they gathered what little courage they had to prove what little might they possessed. That ill-conceived water-lover of a Vala had warned the Lindar and people of Ingwë of his misgivings against him, and those Foam-riding and Air-minded creatures had heeded the Water-king's words. But the Noldor….Ai, how credulous they proved to be, Melkor recalled with an acerbic grin touching his face that had once been beautiful. Though Melkor had anticipated as much as he liked (namely, not at all) that his Sword-elves had followed him beyond the Sea, from it his untainted hate knew no bounds. Melkor thought his accursed brethren would have forbidden such a crossing, wise of the danger to be swiftly wrought at his hands otherwise. But then, the Valar had countless times proven foolish in their deeds.

But come they had, crossing the Cold Road that he once had been forced to march across when bound up in the accursed Angainor. Melkor could still feel the chains burning as a cold brand into his body. But Melkor was little ignorant in the goings of his demesne and had learned swiftly, oh so swiftly, of the Noldor's humiliation and the deeds they had committed at that Haven of incompetent boat lovers. But not only had all but a tithe come, either by way of Sea or Ice, for the Exilic Noldor had not been idle, much to his amusement. Melkor had long known the Elves to be arrogant in his dealings with them, but he had underestimated that arrogance, or mayhap downright prideful folly, for whom with half an intelligent mind would believe himself capable of overthrowing him, King of Arda? He, mightiest of the Valar!

Apparently, Fëanáro. And then Nolofinwë had come with the rising of the white orb, surprising Melkor and his minions with the blast of silver trumpets. But while his servants had simply stood there, ogling with amazement and dread at this newfound source of Light, Melkor had been more keen and recognized Tilion of Oromë at the helm of the satellite. Melkor recalled with a sense of foreboding how confounded he had been when first laying sight on this unanticipated hand of the Valar. And swiftly had he hated the new creation with a burning passion that would have sent fleeing any sane being. What was worse was that this newfound orb of white spat with the image of Telperion. But mayhap, Melkor mused, now that the dismal wonder had dissipated, he could thwart this new creation as all the other plans of the Valar he had thwarted. Tilion was no threat and Melkor fantasized at the Maia's reaction (and the Valar's) should he be assailed with a host of demons. Or shadows. Or flame. Anything of Darkness would work, really. It always proved entertaining to watch the Valar panic over the small things he did.

But such planning was for another time. Melkor knew not what this new sheen of light indicated, if only if it was in coordination with Nolofinwë's arrival, or if it meant more beyond the Valar deftly trying their hand in retaliation again. But he would deal with the newly come Noldor later. Oh yes, he would soon make them regret ever venturing across the Ice as they learned the true meaning of wrath.

But Fëanáro….At the recollection of his bitterest foe, Melkor's mien darkened to be as dark as the vapors blotting out the sunlight. And thunder shook the foundations of Angband beneath his feet. Melkor shook his head in both disgust and disappointment. How many regrets he had with that endearing Elf, Melkor inwardly groused. If only Melkor could have been present, to have placed an ear upon the moment when that insolent princeling had learnt his precious father had died. A bitter smile lit Melkor's face, for though he had delighted in playing with an Unbegotten once more, he had to admit to himself that smiting Finwë would have been all the more entertaining if only his firstborn had been there to witness what he had done to him. Melkor could see it before his eyes, and he relished at his musings: Finwë in his hands with that delicious terror in his eyes all Quendi had been wont to reveal; Melkor going out once more to do as he pleased (oh, how he had longed to!) with brittle hröa and fëa; and all the while Fëanáro bound up in his traitorous Ungoliantë's web, forced to watch his beloved father's demise as he crushed the Noldo's head with a great mace of iron. Melkor's smile diminished as his aura darkened. _Yes_, he hissed. Even though, upon the impulse, Fëanáro would have been the first to go, tormenting the princeling by witnessing such would have been some small reprisal for slamming the door in his face.

And now in Death Fëanáro was beyond his reach! Oh, none could mistake the joy and pleasure Melkor glowed with at the reality that Fëanáro, mightiest to have been and to be, was dead. But he had wished for the pleasure of killing that insolent excuse for a Firstborn himself! But no, Fëanáro's Fire had been smote by a greater flame ere he could reach him, and Melkor had made sure Cosmoco knew fully of his wrath for performing the deed that had rightfully belonged to him!

_Jail-crow_ Fëanáro had called him, Melkor inwardly grumbled. A jail-crow, just before Fëanáro had slammed the door in his face. He had not even given Melkor the chance to converse with him as he did the other Noldor! Melkor still knew not where he had failed in his endeavor to douse him with sweet words and was ever bitter over the failure, for he had needed the Spirit of Fire like no other for his plans to fully come to fruition. But such never came, and when finally Melkor had the chance to break and make suffer that Incarnate in any way he pleased, that pleasure was taken from him! Lord of Valaraukar and king of flame though he be, Cosmoco still trembled in the presence of his Master. Good riddance.

But though he had wished for Fëanáro as a captive, Nelyafinwë proved to be somewhat of a fine substitute, Melkor had to confess, his ire with Fëanáro fading as he considered his firstborn son. And Melkor had been somewhat impressed with how long it had taken to break down the whelp.

As his thoughts turned to the red-haired creature deep beneath his feet in one of the pits of Angband, Melkor leant upon his elbows on the parapet of glassy igneous rock, wondering what end was to be for Fëanáro's firstborn. He had a strong spirit, true, and such was something Melkor had initially underestimated. But what else should he have expected from the very get of the Spirit of Fire?

But not fiery enough, Melkor amended in dark amusement as he heard laughter from the stronghold's depths. Even now Melkor could hear the delightful shrill of Nelyafinwë's screams as his Orcs enjoyed him. In all honesty, Melkor had to confess to being surprised Nelyafinwë had still any voice left in him to cry, for even his lieutenant, most cunning of all his People, had been erstwhile convinced that Fëanáro's Copperhead had lost any strength (or mayhap will) to utter pleas and protestations. But now, atop the slags of Angband, from amid the deepest pits of the stronghold Melkor could hear him screaming again with that delicious despairing agony in his voice.

Nelyafinwë, Maitimo, the Elf of beautiful bodily form….What Melkor would give to see if any would be capable of even uttering that amilessë after laying sight on him now. Mayhap Nerdanel had named him for the beauty of his body in reference to outwardly as much as inwardly, for Maitimo generated blood at an admirable speed. But even if he could survive his time here in this abode of mountains, this Elf of exceptional beauty would forever bear the scars of his torment and be a beauty no longer. Melkor let go a small grin at the thought. It was the least the Elf deserved for existing.

Verily, he had never taken much notice of Nelyafinwë amid his dwelling in the West, Melkor reflected, for all his focus had been bent on destroying that hapless Fëanáro. All Melkor remembered most of all was the image of Maitimo in the constant company of that one Elf, the one who walked by his side with dark hair braided as ever with cords of gold. Melkor knew Findekáno as intimately as he knew all of the House of Finwë, but then Melkor took little notice of things not pertaining to his plans. Especially with all his efforts dedicated towards all the feigning to be done that naught was wrong and all was well.

And such effort had been draining. To all Elves he himself was more fair than even Manwë, Melkor knew. The Elves had given him ear as they never had for his usurper of a brother! But still, something had stayed his advancement in Valinor. And for that detestable reason Melkor had dared to never risk his act of self-abasement and repentance being discovered, though such had been a temptation considering how gullible and naïve his little brother was.

The countenance of Melkor was terrible to behold as it darkened beyond forbearance as his thoughts dwelled on Manwë. And Melkor could have screamed in all hatred and ire unmatched.

Aye, naught had been wrong and all well. And it had been as insanity maintaining the deception all the while working to stay the torment that had come upon Melkor in droves from merely _being_ in the abode of the Valar!

Melkor's Being suddenly quailed in remembrance and several quakes rent rock and earth throughout the Iron Mountains. But Melkor paid no heed to the devastation he wrought, took no comfort from it, for he now trembled as seldom before, though whether more in hate or terror none could tell.

Manwë's Song was everywhere! A deep longing for the Void smote Melkor then, a longing for its vastness, vastness empty of all his brethren's pretentions of Song and might. Why did Manwë do what he did? Why must his Voice and essence echo in _everything_? And in his Song, an echo of the Greater One? One that still reduced and shriveled him until he wept. There was no escaping it, save in the Void. And every shrill of Manwë's Song he heard Melkor grew in hatred beyond Manwë's greatest conception. Why must he Sing? Why had his little brother ever been Brought into Being? Manwë's Song was unending! But not here – nay, here Melkor's own Song echoed with all the might he had long possessed. How the Elves so often cringed upon hearing it, how they constantly trembled as they did for no other Vala.

For Manwë was weak, utterly blinded by a complete lack of intelligence in how to perceive the purpose of Eä's Creation. Manwë feared him and feared him greatly, this Melkor knew well. Manwë was beloved, nay, worshipped by the Eldar and yet his pest of a brother failed to even acknowledge his own faults undeserving of such adulation? What a fool he was! Melkor had seen swiftly before his Imprisonment how Manwë had become engrossed in amendment, healing, and re-ordering. All in effort to control him, Melkor, mightiest of all Beings to be and to come. Ever had Manwë proved incapable of comprehending the benefit of creative power, the beauty of chaos and pure freedom of evil. Melkor had made certain to make Manwë regret that incomprehension, though, proving the _King's_ weakness again and again in their wars and battles.

_Damn Manwë!_ Melkor shrieked on all levels of the cosmos. Thunder rumbled above and fire spewed forth from the rents in the mountainsides, and the air was as hot as his ire. And Melkor felt the hordes of Orcs beneath his feet tremble and cower in face of his wrath. There Manwë sat upon his throne, believing himself to be lord of the highest royalty in Eä. There he sat upon his throne with pretensions of kingship! There he sat upon his throne with the conceited belief to being the greatest of them all!

But no, for Melkor was greater and in all ways conceivable. The Valar cowered behind their hills and Voices. Fourteen of them trembling as he struck, startling as he jumped! Manwë's day of reckoning was coming, and ever was Melkor comforted by this knowledge. His little brother's day was coming, and on that day forevermore would Melkor make Manwë regret his mere Existence. And finally would Melkor have his rightful place as Elder King.

And Melkor lifted his eyes westward to where he knew Taniquetil soared in the heavens. And the fire in his eyes would have smote any Firstborn as a death knell.

"Rise up mountains and I shall fell them," spoke Melkor, casting his sight to him far across the Sea. "Hallow out valleys and I shall upheave them. Sing unto me your Song, Manwë, and I shall blacken the very Voice of your Soul!" As he shouted out the words with the Voice of his Being into the open land, the surrounding earth quaked as cliffs upon mountains crumbled and Thangorodrim absorbed the bolts of lightning from his gales.

Aye, the day was coming, and Melkor's smile was this time gleeful as he retreated to one of his favorite memories, one that never failed to stay the weeping: He had tendered his mercies on Manwë before. Oh how he remembered, and oh, what a glorious moment in Time it had been! Never while in the Timeless Halls had he been able to do so, but in Eä….The Endless waiting in the Void had been fully worth it when came Manwë's screams. And the sounds of his sufferance had granted to Melkor an ecstasy greater than the warping of Eä's fabric ever did. Manwë had been his, wholly his to do with as he pleased!

But then Tulkas had come.

The thought came as a physical blow, and Melkor visibly quailed as he cowered away from the memory of that particular Vala. And Melkor shuddered as he recalled against his will the sound and Power of Tulkas' laugh. The black clouds surrounding Thangorodrim that sounded out their thunderous roar could not even conquer the mere _memory_ of Tulkas, not even by a sliver. And in mind's eye an image was summoned, and Melkor trembled at the memory of how even the Sun was shadowed by the brightness of Tulkas' golden hair, never mind how his own Music was drowned out by naught but the unadorned mirth of that accursed Vala of War.

A wave of despair washed over Melkor then as a crimson tide, and he hated Tulkas for it, hated himself for yielding to it! But the despair remained….What if he came again? Melkor recalled easily how Tulkas had always clenched his hands whenever he saw Melkor go by in Valinor. What if he came again? No longer harnessed by Manwë's leash, what if he came again?

No, no! He would think never of it, never of Tulkas. He would not. He would not. Let all his thoughts be bent on what his hands still claimed. And forcefully Melkor turned his thoughts back to what had so occupied his earlier musings: Nelyafinwë.

And a veil impenetrable shrouded Melkor as he retreated deep in thought. For years had the firstborn of Fëanáro resided in Angband, and for those years had the stalemate lasted. But now Melkor had need to do something else, for in all the years Fëanáro's copper-headed get had graced his fortress, Melkor had pondered time and again if he should turn that Noldo into an Orc.

And time and again Melkor rejected the admittedly savoring temptation. Aye, every fiber of his being ached to continue on with his artwork of old, but being turned into an Orc was too good for Fëanáro, and henceforth, too good for Nelyafinwë. Orc lives were as ants. Without him the thousands upon thousands of Orcs would be scattered leaderless and witless, for without his iron control and purpose upon their wills they would be little better than the dumbest sheep. And their mindset was simple, for Melkor knew Orcs even believed Elves to be crueler than themselves, that Elves took Orcs as captives only for amusement or to eat them. It worked to sustain their delight in tormenting whatever Firstborn fell as putty into their hands. Verily, Melkor made certain to hold the Orcs in their dire thralldom, for in their corruption they had lost almost all possibility of resisting the domination of his will. As a cursory glance Melkor looked beneath him and saw his children shiver as they felt his eye pass over them, the pressure of the Master's gaze too great and terrible to endure.

Aye, as tempting as it was, it would be a pity if any Elf flowing with the blood of Fëanáro was reduced to that. For then what would follow? Even reducing the Incarnate's life to that of his many thralls Melkor had also rejected, tempting as it also was. Melkor had a prince of the Noldor in his hands, the very get of the Spirit of Fire, the rightful King of the Noldor! Such an esteemed and royal person deserved special treatment. And he would be damned if he let slip this opportunity for instead the brief satisfaction of seeing Maitimo as an Orc. Something greater was deserved. Something greater was needed. Something to teach those damnable fierce and fell Noldor to retreat back across the Sea, to lose hope in whatever pretensions they stood on. Something to make all of the House of Fëanáro regret ever stepping foot upon the Lands of Melkor. But what beyond that he already has planned?

So far, Nelyafinwë's screams had been music unto Melkor's ears. And oh, how he would smile to hear them again! But not yet, not yet….Something needed doing before Nelyafinwë's descent into the Dark. To start, it was time to again send in Mairon. To send him in to break whatever vain hope sustained the fiery firstborn of Fëanáro.

"Mairon, my dearest," he whispered, the very command of his Voice breaching the unassailable stones of Angband, and the words fell unto the ears of his most devout servant sitting on his chair with the beast Draugluin resting beneath. And swiftly, he felt Mairon's undivided and fervent attention on him, the Master of Arda Marred, and the smile Melkor gave was as fierce and fell as the ice and fire he so delighted in. "Arise from your seat and go unto our guest, and to him do with what you have been blessed. Wean the Eru-fearing firstborn of Fire from his allegiance and propound to the Child a greater hope of benefit. Propound to him, best beloved, a Lord who will sanction what he desires and not forbid it. Call him to me and bend his knee, and my pleasure you shall know in plenty."

He felt Mairon rise from his chair and Melkor retreated to further thoughts of cunning for his copper-haired thrall. He had rid the World of the first Finwë and the second Finwë he had smote. It was time to heed the needs of the third Finwë. Mayhap now his fire had waned enough to finally do so. Breaking down the whelp was a delicate process, after all.

To be continued….

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**A/N:** Thank you for taking interest in the first chapter of this new installment. Reviews are much appreciated, as is any form of feedback you have to offer. Next chapter – Maedhros is granted a respite and despairs as he receives some company.

Lindar: the attested divisionary name of the Teleri in Aman, preferred by the people of Olwë in that they called themselves the Lindar [UT.299].  
Valaraukar: Balrogs  
Ataressë/amilessë: father-name/mother-name

Index on Names: at this early point in time, it is irrational to attest that the Quenya form of Elven names were already provided their Sindarin rendition. At the time of Maedhros' captivity, the Sindar had yet to socially interact with the Exilic Noldor to the point of Sindarin adaptation.

Nelyafinwë/Maitimo: Maedhros, the ataressë/amilessë.  
Fëanáro: Fëanor, his amilessë.  
Nolofinwë: Fingolfin, his ataressë.  
Findekáno: Fingon, his amilessë.  
Cosmoco: Gothmog, the demon's masc. name, finalized and derivative form to be found in HoME I & II.  
Mairon: the original name for Sauron. A full explanation for _Mairon_ being Sauron's original Maian/Valarin name will be provided in the final chapter. Please refrain from enquiring until then, as this is a rather headache-inducing topic when having to be individually explained. Likewise, I elected to refrain from using the Valarin forms of the names of the Valar as all of them were not provided by Tolkien.


	2. The Tall

**Disclaimer:** For full disclaimer, see Chapter 1.

**A/N:** I apologize for the overly long wait (wasn't in the mood to write). Hope your interest hasn't waned. And I should have stated this in the initial chapter, but for those who have not visited my bio I state it now for the sake of clearance: This fiction contains no slash and no inference of slash and no descriptive carnal exploitation (unless your imagination conjures it, then every man to himself). Though the circumstances surrounding this tale are intended to be dark and evilly obscene, all is as Tolkien lawed – this story is not meant to be strictly a canonical gap-filler, but rather meant more for canonical alignment. And for reviewing my deepest gratitude goes to **LalaithElerrina**, **Lia** **Whyteleafe**, **Love** **Missile**, **Estel-Mi-Olor**, **GreenGreatDragon**, **Sadie Sil – English** **Stories**, "**Iscandis**", and **AntiCreator**.

**Warning:** This story has not yet progressed to a Rating of M, a decision not made lightly, but this is now certainly a **hard T**. But the warning in Chapter 1 stands firm and so I repeat again, read with caution from here on out, for some descriptions and/or scenarios may prove disturbing to some readers, which grow far more graphic than any erstwhile alluded. I believe imagination trumps descriptive content, and so if you desire to discuss with me any uncertainty you might develop while reading, you may.

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_Cling clang, go the chains, someone's out to find you.  
__Cling clang, oh the chains, the warden's right behind you.  
__Quick now, his seeking chains, approach with their shrill scrape.  
__Don't stop, flee the chains, your last chance to escape!_

_Drag the chains, drag the chains, with all the strength you may.  
__Drag the chains, drag the chains, ere they drag you away!  
__Cling clang, go the chains, no more time for fear….  
_…_.Cling clang, no the chains! The last sound that you'll hear…._

~ "League of Legends": Thresh, the Chain Warden

**Chapter 2**

Even as Melkor relished in and made stronger the perfume of the sour billows cloaking his stronghold, greater was the reek of fumes belched from the monstrous pillar of the chimney, from which clearly rang the blows of countless smiths. Scorched black from ever filtering smoke were the inner walls of the chimney, for deep in Angband the fires of the smithies were seldom, if never doused. The caverns were broad and echoed with the sound of whips lashing through the air, swiftly followed by cries of agony that made the Orc overseers jeer.

For many an Elf labored at the smithies in their thralldom, working with blistering hands the iron ore constantly delivered by the slaves who mined it deeper in the pit. Elven throats dried and skins burned as forge fires roared, and iron and other metals were quickly molded and hammered into footgear and shields and great spears with broad blades. And all the slaves, hair of dark hue and lithe bodies marked with abuse, remained suitably cowered by the monsters surrounding them twice their number. Orcs were ever in sight. And Elves wept as they saw the horror of their nightmares made manifest before them: foul creatures bred by subterranean heats and slime, with hearts of granite and their bodies deformed in ways Elven imagination never fathomed.

And never did their foul faces smile, lest it was in glee at their torment.

And so the Elf-thralls worked, labored and toiled, fear of the relentless lash driving them and anguish of greater chastisement cowering them.

But Balcmeg was ill-pleased by their progress thus far, and in a spasm of hate he lashed his whip across the back of the Elf before him for moving too slow. The pitiful creature wailed at the sudden stripes in his skin, blood quickly pooling from beneath. Fell and jagged claws tearing at the iron-shod grip of the many-tailed scourge, the Orc emitted a vicious growl deep from his barrel of a chest and took a step forward to taste the bright blood. But the Elf had already cowered away, hauling his delivery of iron ore behind him.

Balcmeg let him go, growling in displeasure. He wanted to taste the creature's blood, one he had not tasted yet. It looked to be as savoring as the others. But Master was adamant these critters live to serve and Balcmeg, as all others of his breed, was too fearful of Master to disobey. (He had felt his eye on him not a moment ago and had trembled.) All these critters were captured instead of slain for their strength, anyway, and immediately set with heavy thrall-work in Master's mines or in Master's smithies. Master seemed satisfied, but Balcmeg felt their servitude to be too easy.

Truthfully, these Elves were boring. Balcmeg hated them for being too boring. Certainly, when properly motivated their shrieks were musical enough and delicate bodies perfect for manhandling; how fun playing with them proved to be, if only to lark at their frail endeavors to worm away. But as much as he thrilled in making them taste fear and despair, Balcmeg hated them. They were too not-ugly. Too undeformed, too unperverted, and too uncumbered by half. Balcmeg grew incensed whenever he made faulty of foot one of these lissome creatures for them only to regain their balance instead of sprawling on the ground. It stopped him from being able to do as he pleased with the rogues further. That and their smooth, pale skin that glowed in the dark was a horrid aberration. Whatever scars he bore they should bear too, and so at the continuing sight of flawless skin abounding Balcmeg brought his scourge whipping across whatever skin was made available of those creatures nearest to him.

But these Elves were still too boring. As mules, they learned to do as told by Master after a few beatings, but where was the thrill in not being granted opportunities to do violence unto another? Master forbade putting them to death out of pleasure, so nigh all left was boredom. Put to labor, these Elves were not at all as fun as Fire-head.

Balcmeg wrung his malformed fist again on the iron handle. He wanted to go back to Fire-head! These Elves did not bleed like the prisoner, and Balcmeg rightfully belonged there! Master said so. Master said they could take him as a pet, all who had part in taking captive Fire-head. Such numbered many, but Balcmeg had been one of the leaders and should not be overseeing these iron thralls when there was greater iron to beat.

He had been there when Master's forces slaughtered those of Fire-head's as drops of rain in the smithies. He had been the one to disarm Fire-head, to aid holding him down as he fought with all the ferocity of madness. He had dug his claws into Fire-head's arms, drawing blood, as the Elf was bound in chains of Master's make and dragged back to Master's fortress like a dumb beast (such a undertaking had been the highlight of Balcmeg's life thus far, and he had yet to relive such a pleasurable experience). He had been there when Fire-head was brought before Master and stripped to reveal every wound obtained and when Master ordered his mesmerizing, fiery hair to be hacked from his head.

And how Balcmeg had jeered with a vicious roar! For the hair being gracelessly taken from his head had been the best part. Master had gifted a strand to each who helped capture Fire-head and gave the rest to Lieutenant. Balcmeg had his own copper strand tied at his belt, and after ending a brawl between two Orcs over a strand of the hair, Lieutenant spoke he would grant one new strand every time he and fellow Orcs did not flout orders with Fire-head.

Balcmeg got a fourth strand today, just a while ago. He had been with Fire-head and stopped when told to stop by servant of Master clad in the bodily form of an Orc, and had pulled only one tooth instead of giving into temptation to pull two. Though he hated the Elf, Balcmeg was elated by how quickly Fire-head regrew teeth, for Balcmeg loved pulling teeth and by the reactions of Fire-head, it proved more entertaining than pulling fingernails, though that was fun too. But ripping out nails was not as effective and going to pull a tooth evoked far more terror and pain in Fire-head as few other cruelties did (and a lot more blood).

Balcmeg glanced down at his four strands of hair, glinting as fire in the blaze of the forges, and the tooth he had pulled tied at the end, already licked clean of its blood. Fire-head's reaction had been as a fine meal of fresh meat, and though servant of Master had said stop, he and the other Orcs had felt generous enough to torture Fire-head elsewhere for a good while longer (to turn away his mind from the torment in his mouth). But then servant of Master had shooed them away. He wanted to go back to Fire-head. The scent of fear in this cavern of smithies was great, but more potent and thrilling was it in Fire-head's vault. Maybe with the evidence of his fourth strand of hair, servant of Master would let him peel skin again –

Balcmeg suddenly tensed, knots of muscle bunching grotesquely beneath sallow skin. Someone was coming. Scalding hot the air already was (by the sweat of the Elves, anyway), its temperature suddenly soared until even in the dim lighting the air was seen to shimmer with the heat. And the crimson glow flickering and emitting from hundreds of furnaces were eclipsed as a darker presence made himself known. And Balcmeg shivered, joining other Orcs in mewling discontent. It was him! Lieutenant was coming; conquering by his mere presence the potency of the fire's light as he had never seen any other do, save Master.

Lieutenant entered the vast chamber, coming to a halt just before the nearest forge and casting his gaze about, blithely ignoring how those thralls nearest to his feet shied away in abject fear to the other side of the smithy. Balcmeg was unable to relish the taste of such fear, for at the sight of Lieutenant he was blinded and clawed at the searing pain in his head, struggling not to cower himself. Such an endeavor failed and Balcmeg shuffled back several steps, grinding his teeth and shaking his head as he worked to focus his attention on the terrible one that went beyond description.

Lieutenant continued on searching the conclave of Orc and Elf with his bright eyes and Balcmeg shivered at the realization he was not looking about at the thralls, but the Orcs. A high-pitched snivel emerged from his throat before he could stop it and he hoped by fire it went unheard. Lieutenant was beloved of Master and had ear of Master. Only those of recalcitrant behavior were brought to the attention of Master. Lieutenant was too much of swiving importance to supervise heavy work of thralls!

But the quiet sound did not go unobserved and Lieutenant's eyes snapped over to rest on him. And such a gaze felt to pierce Balcmeg to the core of his being, remaining to sizzle there as hot iron, and Balcmeg mewled even more, clawing at his chest until skin broke and black blood welled to the surface. A presence beyond endurance scorched the surface of his mind and tore through, and then Balcmeg found his yellow eyes being centered on Lieutenant.

And Lieutenant, with an eyebrow slightly raised, was regarding him with a hint of amused contempt playing in his eyes. Always Lieutenant clad himself in the disgusting form of these Incarnates and Balcmeg was at a loss as to why. But thinking proved challenging, and anyway Lieutenant was gesturing him forward with a single hand.

"Come," he ordered, smooth voice resonating within the cupola of rock. "And light a torch." Lieutenant pivoted on his heel and walked away, not even bothering to see his command followed.

But Balcmeg felt a shiver of dark delight soar through his blood. Light a torch! Such meant he was going back to Fire-head! Balcmeg's mouth salivated at the thought of his blood and he scrambled to set a spark to the kindling of a torch.

O = O = O

Focus on the splinter. Just focus on the splinter, the sharp, napping pinch of pain in the tip of his finger. It was there, miniscule and tangible only by its bite, but it was there. Obtained by futile clawing at the manacles about his wrists, an act born of desperation and despair, uncounted slivers of metal had lodged themselves in the tips of his fingers and under nails. But the splinter newly obtained was pleasant in its throbbing irritation. The very tip of his ring finger, it was there, just beneath the ragged nail, with sharp pain lancing through at the slightest movement.

Nelyafinwë made an effort and brought closer to his eye the very finger his sole focus was on. All fingers were bloodied and ripped raw beyond recognition from clawing at his chains, but Nelyafinwë knew with certainty he spied a glimpse of iron beneath the blood, the butt of the metal sliver still protruding from his skin. He could see it, he knew he could: a spot near indiscernible that shined but a shade darker than the drying blood about it. He made bend the joints of the finger and as a slow transference of mist over ground the pinch of pain soared to life and from the tip traveled along –

_Whack!_

Nelyafinwë arched under the greater thrash of fire than previously received, and all manner of thought and attention was uncouthly dragged hither and thrust back into reality. Splinter now nonexistent, in a fruitless attempt to escape back into the deepest, most isolated part of his being Nelyafinwë closed shut his eyes. But fruitless it was, for all dimensions of reality swarmed back, puncturing his mind as ruthless knives. The conclave of Orcs surrounding him: their stench as sulfur and mire, their hideous stature broad and sallow-skinned, and their laughter as that of the clash of metal.

Down came the lash again, wrapping about to hook to the tender skin of his stomach and rip through the skin with a mighty heave. Nelyafinwë without thought wanted to scream, and indeed he tried, but so raw and spent was his throat the most he could emit in reaction to the pain were gasps and moans. Of what remained of the analytical part of his mind, Nelyafinwë made out three Orcs attending him while countless more stood about to enjoy the sport. Though his vision swarmed and blurred, he made out the many legs that looked as dead boles of a drowned forest.

Nelyafinwë tensed involuntarily as he felt ragged claws on his shoulder blade and gasped, turning his face into the grout beneath him, as he felt the skin hook beneath the talons and part as the fibers of fabric, slow and steady. He unconsciously went to move away, but so feeble was his body he had not even strength to fight off a sparrow.

"Back!"

Nelyafinwë could have wept in relief when came that command from the Úmaia. (He knew him to be an Úmaia, for though it was difficult to differentiate at times, he had learned swiftly of the Orcs' hatred for any discernible speech and only those who he deduced to be servants of Moringotto bothered to speak at all). "Back!" came the command again, and Nelyafinwë felt more naked than he did already as the space about him became breathable once more: Orcs were quick to scurry away at the Úmaia's bark of command as though it came as a physical blow, and they growled and roared their angry discontent, iron-shod feet scraping at the ground with enough force to grate on the ears.

Nelyafinwë had gone limp, muscles utterly exhausted from the prolonged torture of remaining so tense. He neither knew nor cared what the Orcs were doing or where they went, though by their harsh voices sounding from further away he presumed they had left the vault, or all but one did. Nelyafinwë could still sense near him the Úmaia, clad as an Orc, standing at his feet, the un-orcish calmness of his breath echoing off the rock walls. There was no light in this prison, but Nelyafinwë could just see the near imperceptible outline of his scarred legs. He was just standing there, facing him, and the Elf felt his heartbeat quicken in panic.

_Please_, Nelyafinwë inwardly beseeched, _not the chains. Not the chains_. But too late, for the Úmaia suddenly moved and grabbed hold of the chains that bound him in more ways than one and heaved, dragging the Elf back to the iron rings jammed in the wall and weaving the chains through the rings in a way impossible to unravel. Nelyafinwë let out a silent scream, nothing left to give any voice, and closed his eyes tightly as his face cringed at the agony of the chains pulling at his skin. When first thrown by Moringotto into this abyss of torment, little had he given any leeway to his captors in being subdued, namely nothing. His will had been great to break free from this underworld and his fear not suppressive enough to stay acting on that will. But such a bid for freedom had come dearly. With a show of strength that had startled his captors, Nelyafinwë had broken his first chains crafted by the hands of Orcs. But the second set had proved a worse punishment than any he had prepared himself for. Nelyafinwë had been forced to watch their remaking, crafted this time by the hands of an Úmaia of great skill at the forge, and the chains' links had been interlaced with a fine wire of iron barbed with teeth. If the impregnability of the Úmaia's chains made it impossible to escape them, the teethed wire discouraged him from even twitching in them.

And now his skin bore the weight of his body as those chains pulled him back against the wall; skin about elbows, shoulders and knees, already a bloodied mess, tore even more and his wrists and ankles he feared would be forever scarred, even if to the end of Arda he should live.

The Úmaia left. Lost in his physical misery, Nelyafinwë neither heard nor saw him leave, but no matter how deceiving he worked to be in the body of an Orc, the dark energy radiating from him was as perceptible as the icy air of Losgar. Besides, by Nelyafinwë's knowledge, no Orc of Angband moved so light of foot and with such unearthly grace. Metal grated harshly on metal and the slam of the iron door to his vault followed by its locks falling in place sounded. For being finally granted respite Nelyafinwë wanted to weep in relief, but to produce tears no water was in his body.

For a long while, Nelyafinwë lay there, daring not even one part of him to twitch as what remained of his mind focused on lessening the pain. The metallic taste of blood was in his mouth, jaw where teeth had been pulled ached with a wave of agony come every beat of his heart, lungs burned with the effort to breathe, muscles seared with endless fire, and skin…he wished skin never existed.

Without thought, Nelyafinwë succumbed to the temptation of drifting, willing all mind, conscience and spirit to retreat into the furthest corner of his fëa, cloaking himself with whatever sanity still remained as a shield against the onslaught of nightmares working to pierce and shred that little corner apart. And at such withdrawal so came a lessening of the physical agony, and Nelyafinwë's last cognizant thought was why they were cursed to live when quiet existed so much more in not living.

A year. Lost in this damnable prison was any sense of Time, but his analytical mind ticked away the remembered length of days and Nelyafinwë figured a year must have passed since that ill-fated day, when he had learned too late that to do evil unto evil was to welcome greater evil being done unto him. Not that he anymore cared. Time was now measured by the intervals of the dreaded sound of locks being opened on his door, when he had to suffer the mind-meddling of the Bright One, or worse, when he was forced on the whim of Moringotto to undergo his presence. Any semblance of light to diminish the consuming darkness of this dank hole was as nonexistent as Time. But though such bottomless black eliminated Nelyafinwë's sense of sight, he could feel and smell the stale scent of moisture on the wall and would go and lick it up if only he could move.

A tickle. He could feel a tickling sensation somewhere and his conscience inexorably surfaced to the present, wondering what ruthlessly disturbed his retreat so. Nelyafinwë realized it was a spider crawling on his foot, and fury simmered in his breast. He tried to ignore it, tried to retreat back into that blissful haven of nonliving, but the little tapping of legs on already nerve-rankled skin was worthy of all the curses his father had heaped on Moringotto. Running a hot iron rod against his ribcage again would be less bothersome.

Reacting before thinking, he went to whip the insect off with a small kick and Nelyafinwë let out an inaudible cry as one thing happened after another; the chains dug deeper into the skinless flesh of his ankles, pain lanced through his inoperable knee, shot up his leg, through his hip and into the several ribs he knew to be fractured. Inevitably, he jerked, more of a shake really. Muscles tensed again as waves of pure agony washed over him, the pain of every wound flaring to intensity once more. A whimper escaped his lips and he worked to commence breathing again, his rasping harsh even to his own ears. And thusly was Nelyafinwë rendered immovable on the caked ground of filth once more. These Orcs may act dumber than the lowest chicken and more vicious than the most rabid of creatures, but they and their masters knew what they did.

Eru help him, his fëa cried, but even now Nelyafinwë wondered if by the One he had also been abandoned. Cursed he and his brethren truly had made themselves. Mandos was forever closed to him and Death would not claim him. Why would it not? Surely the Everlasting Darkness could be no worse than this. How he wished to lapse into unconsciousness, whether from lack of blood or strength, but he feared the pain forever too great for such bliss.

O = O = O

_Splash!_

Nelyafinwë jerked awake in shock at the cold feeling of water upon his face. And through the red haze of pain that again clouded his mind with such drastic movement in his chains, the Elf made out the shadow of one standing over him. It was the Úmaian Orc, or the Orcish Úmaia, whatever he be. And the monster was smiling at him, teeth pointed and yellow and creased in some form of sadistic pleasure.

"Aww," he purred, his voice grating and harsh as rocks falling down a mountainside. "Poor pet fell asleep. Little Elf chose to partake not of his water for the day. Whatever shall he do?" Nelyafinwë finally made out the roughly carved tankard clutched in the clawed hand as the Úmaia turned it upside down. And both watched, the Úmaia in delight and Nelyafinwë in grief, as what remained of the water lazily grew into a fat drop, hanging and bobbing from the rim until it broke free, landing alongside the Elf's head not a handbreadth away.

The Úmaia again chuckled out the sound of clashing metal and tossed the wooden mug through the opened door of his vault. "Until tomorrow, pretty thing," he taunted. "In the heat of smithies water is precious and can be not so wasted as you have just done."

Anger, despair, panic….Nelyafinwë briefly wondered if he should feel now any one of these, having felt them each in such a scenario, whether with being denied murky water or food so rough it scraped the roof of his mouth raw. But conjuring some emotion was draining and, in the end, Nelyafinwë decided to feel nothing. The Úmaia was obviously waiting for some reaction, but Nelyafinwë's gaze slid down from his until near the floor, limply staring at nothing. He started to again search for the splinter in his finger.

The Úmaia bared his teeth, growling in anger, and moved faster than Nelyafinwë's brain could register. He crouched down and grabbed hold of the Elf's distorted visage, uncaring that his claws broke into the skin, and forced the Elf's eyes on him once more. Nelyafinwë nearly fainted from the pain that suddenly flared to life in his mouth, never mind elsewhere. By now his jaw might have lessened to a dull ache, but the gaping hole from the last tooth pulled still bled.

The Úmaia smiled at him again, and it was far from pleasant. "Learn some manners you will, sweet one." The monster ran his tongue over Nelyafinwë's cheek, lapping up the blood that welled beneath his claws. The blood still came, settling over old blood already hardened against the pallid skin. The Elf tried to turn away and the Úmaia cackled at the ill-concealed disgust.

He patted the cheek, making the Elf wince. "But not now," he demurred gruffly. And then he again smiled, and that wicked smile spoke all the danger Nelyafinwë needed to understand. "Now," the Úmaia purred, leaning in closer with yellow eyes alight with glee, "you have a visitor. Your friend, dear and loving to your heart."

Pure panic erupted in Nelyafinwë's mind at the realization of whom the Úmaia spoke and he started trembling. "No," he rasped, some of his voice having come back. No, not the Bright One. His heart now pounding with very real fear, Nelyafinwë started to move away, these skin-shredding chains be damned. A cough tore through his chest and from the corner of his mouth fell a trickle of blood. "No," he rasped again with a dry sob, forcing his limbs to move, forget the pain.

The Úmaia bared his Orc-fangs at him. "Yes," he hissed. Reaching above with rough hands, he disentangled the chains from their iron rings and Nelyafinwë was once more subjected to being dragged from the wall to the center of his vault, grit of the ground bringing from slumber the fire of his wounds. The agonizing move left Nelyafinwë gasping for breath, the Úmaia huffing in amusement.

Through the haze of pain now the embodiment of his world, Nelyafinwë never registered the pat on his cheek, the Úmaia making for the iron wrought entrance, or the door grating and slamming shut (though the Úmaia remained in the chamber). And the torment gradually faded only to be replaced by the utter despair of what was to come.

With his fëa Nelyafinwë cried out to Eru and whatever higher power still had mercy enough to listen. Let him take another beating, more humiliating, tighter chains, anything but the Bright One! Nelyafinwë knew not if he could mentally survive another visit from _him_. Something happened when came the Bright One, something beyond description, for every time he felt part of his sanity be shredded beyond repair and death seemed all the more enticing. Never did Nelyafinwë imagine one could compare to his forced audiences with Moringotto on his throne, but the Bright One came close. Oh so close. Eru spare him from such. Why so difficult was it to fall asleep and never again wake? Vainly desired did Nelyafinwë that his hands and feet were not so tightly bound, but he pulled on them tighter, dark blood seeping through the links, that he might be free of them and flee. Though flee to where he knew not.

Nelyafinwë caught the dim sound through the door of an echoing march of an Orc, hobnailed boots excitedly pounding on the stone pathway and growing louder. His heart was in his throat and eyes wide and dark as he stared at the door, waiting in dread.

Without warning, the door swung open with such a force that the air shifted about him…and then it was as though a thousand knives pierced through his skull as an Orc stepped in, bearing a torch. A lit torch. And Nelyafinwë closed his eyes against such agony, the light of the fire searing his eyes as a brand and swiftly inducing a pounding ache in his head. Nelyafinwë groaned as it persisted, able to see a smidgen of light even through his eyelids. Eyes would be forming tears now if he was not so dehydrated, but they only burned. He inwardly wailed, wishing the light would go away. He wanted it dark again.

"Open your eyes."

Nelyafinwë froze. His heart stopped and, against his own accord, his eyes opened in his shock of that voice, eyes nearly black from pupil dilation. His eyes adjusted with a blur, but still it was painful. The brightness of the torchlight had faded, but only because it had been eclipsed by a greater light, a greater light that was somehow darker in its brilliant devastation. Nelyafinwë's gaze went up and over to that greater source, to the being standing over him.

It was _him_. And as always, Nelyafinwë was taken aback by the beauty in his stance and surreal fairness of his complexion. Clad in a form akin to his own, in his eyes showed the depth and wonders of a time before Time, of existence that made appear feeble this World. Under the torchlight his hair shined darker than the deepest pit, and the slight smile at his mouth was kind and disarming. The Bright One. The one Nelyafinwë had witnessed remake his chains, calm and sure in all he did. Nelyafinwë knew him to be of the Úmaiar, high in the favor of Moringotto, but never had he heard a whisper of his name. All Nelyafinwë knew was the dread that engulfed him every time the Bright One came to _talk_…and that part of him anticipated his presence. And Nelyafinwë hated himself for it.

But more was his hate for _him_. Fair of face and sweet of words he may be, but Nelyafinwë had long learned of the terror beneath it all. The unknown shrouded him and Nelyafinwë knew not how to pierce it. And the Elf's body shivered as the dark ecstasy that surrounded the Bright One softly but firmly caressed his fëa. Nelyafinwë despaired: it was already starting.

The Bright One tilted his head ever so slightly, looking down on the Elf with soft regard. The sound of shuffling feet sounded in the vast space and then stilled as the Bright One held up a hand, never removing his gaze from the Elf. "I bid you remain, Fankil," he spoke, his voice smooth and enticing. "Balcmeg, take the torch and stand silent at the door."

Fankil. Ahh, so this was the name of that despicable Úmaia clad as an Orc. Through squinted eyes, Nelyafinwë saw the Úmaia in question sturdy his stance and cross his arms while the other Orc did as bid, grumbling in what sounded as displeasure. Nelyafinwë furrowed his brow, wishing they all would just away and leave him in his misery.

On light feet the Bright One moved and in all grace crouched down beside the bound Elf. And Nelyafinwë trembled, too terrified to hate himself for that too.

"Shh," the Bright One softly voiced with a sweet smile, sweeping back with gentle fingers blood-matted hair. "Hush now, little one. Let not your heart be troubled, for you know I come not with torment, no?"

Nelyafinwë did not answer (if he even could) and instead closed his eyes and desperately tried to retreat back within himself.

The Bright One tsked, touching light fingertips against a disfigured cheek, and Nelyafinwë could have screamed as they burned his open abrasions, so glacial was their touch. "Now, now, such is no good," the Bright One spoke lightly, almost teasingly. "Why turn from that I offer? You know you want it."

Nelyafinwë wanted to shake his head, had he the strength, to make it clear that, no, he did not want it. But too late again, for the Bright One reached out and placed a flawless hand on the Elf's brow, resting it there even as Nelyafinwë cringed away from it. A moment passed. And then, as a mighty wind blowing away storm clouds, the agony in mind and body eased, rolling back as a taut scroll would curl in on its rod. Wounds remained unhealed, but their excruciation was held at bay.

And even as his body visibly sagged in relief at the brief gift of bliss, Nelyafinwë in rage wanted to tear the Bright One apart for taking away the pain. Taking away the pain meant giving back what the pain took away: awareness, and all Nelyafinwë's senses soared in the full cognizance of his surroundings. Though his eyes still ached in the torchlight, he could see the rock walls of his vault was not simple rock, but crumbled and pigeon-holed with webs and nests of creatures he dared not conceive, and a sheen of mildew and what looked like slime coated crevice to crevice. The stench was unbearable: the lingering smell of Orc bodies and his own blood (which had been splattered or shed on every surface visible to the eye, and the ground and chains were caked in it). Further underground than the countless smithies, the feel of the air was freezing, making him shiver for a whole other reason. And the harshest sounds met his sensitive ears, from hammer blows to Orc laughter to metal clashing to ground quaking.

But even more what Nelyafinwë sensed was that which made his fëa quail: the utter desolation of Law and Harmony. The palpable Discord worked to scourge his fëa with mighty rents as the Orcs did his body, and thusly was the entirety of agony twofold. Nelyafinwë loved the Bright One for relieving him of the physical pain, but he hated him with every fiber of his being for taking away such a shield. Once the Bright One had somehow deduced this and had retracted his _gift_, which only made Nelyafinwë hate him more for forcing back the physical torment on every bit of his body while taking away his troubles in the fëa, the only shield against it.

The Bright One continued with his obscene touch, sweeping both hair and dried blood off the Elf's forehead. "There," he spoke tenderly. "Always you fret and always you learn." He tapped the forehead. "Look at me, little one."

Against his will, Nelyafinwë forced his eyes open and up and immediately wished he had not. Not only were the Bright One's eyes more potent than all the stars combined, but they felt to pierce him, uncovering him in a way not even his nakedness did…._And then he felt it_. Nearly undetectable at first, a foreign presence skimmed his mind as two bubbles would touch without bursting. And then with one firm thrust came the worst of violations, the mental barriers being cast down as a battering ram would destroy a fortified gate. Never did Nelyafinwë feel more stripped of dignity than when came the Bright One's invasion of his mind, and his own sense of self was beaten down by the greater presence now made manifest in his head, surrounding him even as this impenetrable tomb did his body.

Nelyafinwë forced open his eyes again as the Bright One shifted in his posture, leaning back only just. The Bright One tilted his head again and the Elf felt something akin to fingers cyphering through his thoughts – more inspection than a deduction concerning the contents of a closed room – no matter how hard Nelyafinwë went to resist it.

"Do your eyes hurt?" the Bright One asked, his tone of idle curiosity. "Would you that I be rid of the torchlight?"

Nelyafinwë turned his face away, utterly disgusted with the lot of them and wishing darkly for them all to be cast into the deepest pit of Arda.

The Bright One tsked again, shaking his head in disapproval, though in his eyes lurked a dark amusement. "Learn some manners you must. And already we are in the deepest pits of the Lord's World." Silence followed and the Bright One idly tapped the chains forcing the Elf's body to stillness. "Wish you for me to remove these chains?" he enticed, his voice seductive in its lure.

Nelyafinwë shivered at the tap on the chains, praying in despair the Bright One would himself go away. The Bright One chuckled.

"Not so, my sweet," spoke he, a smile in his voice. "I go nowhere, for the time is meet that we have a little understanding." He swept back a few more strands of soiled copper hair. "Time to talk."

To be continued….

* * *

**A/N:** Due to the unforeseen length of this segment, I apologize for the utter lack of dialogue; though such a fault shall be made up come the plenty of conversation in the next chapter: Sauron and Maedhros have a little chat, Maedhros decides suicide to be the better course, and Morgoth recalls some of his favorite memories of Maedhros. Be forewarned, for the next chapter shall progress to a Rating of M. Thank you for reading and any reviews will be greatly appreciated.

Moringotto: Morgoth, Quenya name given by Fëanor  
Fire-head: an attested name of the Orcs for Maedhros of my invention, alluding to the unique copper hue of his hair.  
Balcmeg: a leader of the Orcs slain by Tuor amid the fall of Gondolin [HoME II.182]. That he took part in Maedhros' captivity is my own invention.  
Fankil: a fallen Maia and servant of Melkor who eluded the Valar and escaped into the world at the downfall of Utumno [HoME I.114.269]  
Úmaiar (pl.): the evil spirits (Maiar) that followed Melkor.  
The Bright One: Maedhros, unknowing of the identity of Sauron, draws only from his observations and applies the descriptive title as a sobriquet as the only familiar point of reference. The application of this name is my invention.

Time measurement: As Maedhros surmises the duration of his imprisonment thus far, he makes mention of it being a year. Amid all erstwhile history before the rising of the Sun, the only measurement of time acknowledged and utilized by Exilic Noldor is Valian years, and one Valian year is approximately 10 solar years (9.58 years to be exact). Maedhros, imprisoned in Angband, has yet no cognizance of sun, moon, or seasons. As for the location of this story in the timeline of history, by the _Annals of Valinor_ Maedhros was imprisoned for one Valian year and then hung by his wrist from the precipice of Thangorodrim for over three Valian years. Yeah.

Elven teeth: The principle of adult Firstborn regrowing lost teeth is unfounded canonically, but supported by theory and inspired by the story "Twentynine White Horses" by Jael the Scribe (who credits Nieriel Raina for originality).

Elven thralldom: the present Elves forced in servitude in Angband are not Noldor, but Moriquendi, theoretically [HoME XI.16] taken captive amid the first battle of Beleriand that led to the establishment of the Girdle of Melian and the renaming of Eglador to Doriath.


End file.
